“Do you choose this bond, knowing it’s permanent?” the magic asks through us.
“I choose Rianne,” Stenrik says, looking only at me. “The person, not the solution. For Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons and all the ordinary moments between extraordinary ones.”
“I choose Stenrik,” I say. “The person who makes ice flowers and terrible jokes he doesn’t know are jokes. For expired soup and cart races and Keith’s presentations.”
The magic crests, building to something overwhelming, and I realize.
“We have to seal it,” Stenrik says.
“How?”
He cups my face in his hands, and I go up on tiptoes, and our lips meet as the magic peaks. The kiss is desperate, deep, both of us pouring everything into it. Our fear, our hope, our choice of each other over easier paths.
Energy explodes through us, around us. I feel myself solidifying completely, becoming fully opaque again. Through the kiss, I feel Stenrik’s centuries of loneliness shattering,replaced by us. The Chronicle falls beside us, just a normal book now. The boundary around the library shimmers and dissolves.
We break apart, gasping. I’m solid. He’s solid. We’re ourselves again, but changed. I can feel him like a warm presence in my chest, and when I look at him, his eyes hold flecks of gold that weren’t there before.
“We did it,” I breathe. “Permanently bonded. Not shadow creatures.”
“Not shadow creatures,” he confirms, and the relief in his voice matches mine.
We stare at each other in the sudden quiet. The magic has settled, the Chronicle lies silent, and we’re alone. Really alone. The weight of what we’ve just done, what we’ve chosen, hangs between us like a physical thing.
Then Stenrik moves. Sudden and decisive, he lifts me up, and my legs wrap around his waist automatically. The shift makes me gasp, not from surprise but from how right it feels.
“Where...” I start.
“Somewhere without an audience,” he says roughly, already walking.
His hands are firm on my thighs, holding me against him as he navigates through the scattered books. I can feel his heartbeat racing against mine, quick and urgent.
“The children’s section,” I say against his ear. “Reading corner. It has cushions.”
He changes direction without hesitation, carrying me like I weigh nothing. Which, given his strength, I probably don’t. I kiss his neck because I can, because we’re permanent, because we chose this. He makes a sound that vibrates through both of us and walks faster.
“Is this okay?” he asks, even as his grip tightens.
“More than okay,” I breathe, then bite gently at the spot where his neck meets his shoulder.
His response is to press me against the nearest bookshelf, just for a moment, kissing me with an intensity that makes my head spin. When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Reading corner,” he says, more command than statement.
“Reading corner,” I agree.
He carries me the rest of the way, and by the time we reach the children’s section with its pile of story time cushions and soft carpet, we’re both desperate with need that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with choosing each other completely.
The cushions are soft beneath us when he sets me down, and the moonlight through the windows casts everything in silver. We’re solid, we’re real, we’re permanent.
And finally, finally, we’re alone.
The story time cushions are soft beneath us, moonlight painting everything silver through the high windows. Stenrik sets me down carefully, like I might break, which is ridiculous given everything we’ve just survived.
“I’m not fragile,” I remind him, pulling him down with me.
“I know.” His voice is rough, uncertain. “But this matters.”
I reach up, trace the sharp line of his jaw. “We chose each other. Against easier paths. That matters.”
